


A Throne Of Flowers

by chanheeslatte



Series: Gently, Autumn [2]
Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Angst, Crying, Everyone Is Gay, Gay, Han x changbin, How Do I Tag, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I DON'T EVEN SHIP THEM, I Don't Even Know, I Made Myself Cry, I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Sorry, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, POV Han Jisung | Han, Romance, Sad, Sad Ending, Short, Short One Shot, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, What Have I Done, What Was I Thinking?, Why Did I Write This?, jisung centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 07:25:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19329874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanheeslatte/pseuds/chanheeslatte
Summary: And what about the promise―it is just for you―of making me sit on a throne made of flowers?





	A Throne Of Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> To my dad, who was the first one to read this and give me feedback. I love you so much.

 

_**A THRONE** _  
_**OF**_  
_**FLOWERS**_

 

 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

  
The first time he sees him again, he finds himself thinking that Changbin is nothing but a twisted version of the one who, a long time ago, was the boy painted in his deepest dreams: his eyes are dark―way darker than Jisung actually remembered ―and big, languid, otherworldly; and he has a fair, diaphanous skin. So fair and diaphanous that Jisung is almost scared of breaking it under his gaze.  
A gaze that possesses no innocence; no more.

The first time he sees him again, Changbin is celestial, immaculate, worthy of sitting on Zeus' Throne and be admired with envy.  
He looks like he shines with his own light, and attracts the wind toward him.

_No,_

Jisung tells himself, staring at him with those eyes that were always able to see him for real,

 _This is not Changbin_.

Because he knows Changbin is far from being perfect, untouchable, made of porcelain.  
Oh, he knows it way too well: he saw him, touched him, felt him, savored him.  
He drenched him with his very own tears.  
He enjoyed the other until the last month, the last day, the last hour, the last minute.  
The last shared breath.  
He took that little boy with the skin marked in between his arms, and pulled him toward his body, until he no more felt he ground under his feet.  
He held him tight―more and more, until his howl quieted down; until the night ended.  
Until someone cut the living heart from his chest to see if it burned for real. (1)

Jisung knows by heart every single―and damned―Changbin's facet and could be able to draw each and every of them on canvas: his vivid colours, his dull colours, his stains, his flaws, his cuts, his deepest wounds, his knuckles, the lines on his palms.

Oh, how he could.  
Oh, oh he would.

He looks at Changbin's clean face and keeps on telling himself that, one day, he'll be able to dirty it with every little thing he finds in his own hands: with all the fake romance, all the pure gold, all the blood shed.

 

 

 

 

 

 _Take what remains of your scarred myths,_  
_of your novel with no start, of your_  
_screaming with no way out._  
_Take everything and taste your own_  
_cowardice and all those lies deposed in_  
_those promises that never saw the light._  
_Take them all, take them all, take them all._  
_Take my face in between your hands;_  
_look at me in the eyes;_  
_tell me the things you know I don't want_  
_to hear._

 

_I will make you sit on a throne made_  
_of flowers. It is just for you._  
_A secret between us. A heart knitted in_  
_the chest of a little boy born from fire_  
_and raised by water._  
_I promise you, Jisung._  
_One day, you'll sit on a throne made_  
_of flowers―the most beautiful in the_  
_country, the most scented in the world―and_  
_you'll take control over every thing that_  
_remains of my sick heart._  
_You have to heal me, Jisung._

  
_You and your stupid throne of flowers_.

 

 

 

 

 

But since those days, since the time Changbin's words― _it's just for you_ ―fluttered gracefully in the clear air of a dirty world, it has been years.  
_One, two, three, four._  
Jisung lost the count.  
_Five, six, seven, eight._  
Jisung is now so used to wake up in the morning that he doesn't even remember why he does it.

The years that went on are a lot―less than someone could expect, more than someone could ever imagine, and Changbin is different, unrecognizable, a man in all respects, but not in all aspects: the light blue shirt that makes his chiseled pecs stand out, the black trousers that show off his legs muscles; a well-built jaw, two sculpted cheekbones.

Changbin is ethereal, a breathtaking vision.

Yet, Jisung knows him and, this first time in which he sees him again, the other's smile reflected in his own, he would like to ask him: _and what about your wilted heart?_

Because Jisung knows the outside does not mirror the inside, that the ocean is way wider than it seems; as well as he knows that boys like Changbin can never be saved. Not from their mistakes, neither from themselves.  
Forced to drown to see the bottom.  
Forced to burn to enjoy the light.

So, Jisung laughs at the sight of the man Changbin pretends to be, praying that, one day, the hot wax of the candle he lights up every other night drops on the flawless skin of the boy in front if him, marking him of a new crime; marking him of a new curse.  
He laughs, prays, munches, and spits the sweet taste of a darkness that is born from the bowel and that makes it's way through the veins.  
He laughs in the depths of his body, and laughs in the silence, in the dark, in the cold of his heart.  
He laughs, laughs, and laughs again, with no one able to hear him; with no one able to understand.  
He munches. On one side, honey. He munches. On the other side, the wax. He spits. (2)

 

 

 

 

 

 _You, Changbin, are putrid mud._  
_You don't deserve a good word,_  
_a warm hug, a friendly handshake._  
_You don't deserve a hope, a_  
_benevolent life, a lit fireplace on_  
_winter's days._  
_The only thing you really deserve_  
_is to sit on a throne made of swords._  
_Long, sharp, ready to cut your skin_  
_and tear your organs off._  
_A throne that, one day, will posses nothing_  
_but your bones._  
_Because you have been a little boy, a big boy,_  
_a son, but you never became a man._  
_And you will never become one._

 

_You, Jisung, are living water._  
_And I... Oh, I lose myself in your sea,_  
_feeding myself of that purity only_  
_you posses._  
_I tell you, once again:_  
_I will make you sit on a throne made_  
_of flowers. It is just for you._  
_It will be yours, only._  
_Yours, yours, yours, and yours._  
_No one will dare to put a finger on it,_  
_and I will protect it._  
_I will protect you._  
_From bad, from good, from the known_  
_and the unknown. I will take your_  
_hand and you will be seated on a throne_  
_made of flowers―the mist beautiful in_  
_the country, the most scented in the world._

  
_You and your damned throne of flowers._

 

 

 

 

Yet, his fingers that touch Changbin's hand, Jisung does not want to break his former lover. He knows he will never be able to: he knows himself way too well. Way too much.

So, he smiles brightly, a confident look on his face, as a laugh that is born in the wilted roots of his heart resonates in his chest.  
He smiles with his mouth―his teeth white, his lips thin and pinkish, because he's three times traitor: of violated days, of love, of nights gone bad.  
But he mainly smiles with his eyes―no more clear like those of a little boy―and illuminates the room with his innocent, positive, endlessly white aura.  
And Jisung knows it: he's even proud of it.  


 

 

 _Take, Changbin. Take this glowing of mine._  
_Munch on it, swallow it. You will never be like this. You will never be like me. Take off your mask, come on. You know better than me that we can fool everyone but ourselves._  


 

 

"You never stopped blooming."

Changbin's voice is heavy. It comes like an earthquake and shakes every thing Jisung has.  
It shakes his heart, his thoughts, his legs.  
But shows off the true, the real, the world one can touch with hand. It makes the cowardice stand out. It makes the shame come out.

"You never stopped whithering."  


 

 

 

 

 _All it took was nothing;_  
_at the same time,_  
_all you needed was everything._  
_I want to hear you scream, Changbin._  
_Scream until your vocal cords will_  
_be able to deliver no sound;_  
_Scream until you will no more know_  
_why you're screaming._  
_Do you hear it? The sound of wood_  
_that breaks._  
_Do you hear it? The sound of your_  
_racing heart?_  
_Don't break yourself, Changbin._  
_Just scream._  
_Scream until you will mean nothing to me._  
_Nor hate, nor love: you deserve neither of them._

 

_I love you, even though love does not exist._  
_And I kiss you, because I feel like dying if I_  
_can't do that. I kiss you, because you're_  
_the only living, concrete, beating soul in_  
_this world of death that does not know light._  
_You deserve all the love I will never have._  
_You deserve a love that the flowers of your_  
_throne will protect._  
_You're too precious, and this is just for you._

  
_You and your sweet lies._  


 

 

 

 

Jisung did not know, at first, that lies scented of hydrangea are always the worst.  
He understood it only afterwards, when afterwards was already tragedy and fire was burning him alive.

Sweet was Changbin's breath; sweet was his perfume in between the―still warm―blankets; sweet were his lies―blue and marvellous, left to wilt at the end of a bed that, years after, he wouldn't have been able to see anymore.

Jisung does not feel Changbin's perfume since a long time, now, and asks himself if traitors emanate torment instead of a sweet melody of sounds that no one can hear; that are nothing but fragrances mixed together to inebriate one's senses.  
He asks himself that, but does not dare to get closer to Changbin, because he wants to stand up after falling down, but he knows Changbin does not let go.  
  


_Under a heart made of glass,_  
_what can hide?_

 

_The most secret and marvellous love of them all._  
_I know I've dirt you, but forgive me if you can._

  
_You know you've dirt me,_  
_but you will never get my forgiveness._

 

 

_**Amor, ch'a nullo amato amar perdona.** _

  
**_Amor condusse noi ad una morte._** (3)  
_Love is not a game, and I'm not here_  
_to love you, again, immersing myself_  
_in the depths of a well with no light;_  
_in the darkness of some sweet lies_  
_barely whispered._

 

 

_I will get you the moon, and make you_  
_sit on a throne made of flowers―the most_  
_beautiful in the country, the more scented_  
_in the world._

  
_Our isn't a love that will last even after death._  
_It never was, it never will be._  
_Our love does not forgive_.

 

_Where do you go, Jisung?_  
_Where are you going?_

  
_Have you ever witnessed someone drown?_

 

 

_I will make you sit on a throne_  
_made of flowers._

  
_Drown_.  
  


"You're my world. Still now. Still forever."

Changbin's words are whispered, barely audible.  
And Jisung laughs hard, now out loud, because he can feel bullshit on his skin: invisible marks the older left him.

 

"If I was, by now I would be sitting on a throne made of flowers."

 

 

**NOTES**

 

 

**╔══☆═════════════╗**

 

 

(1) Based on  
A Storm Of Swords,  
Chapter Ten  
(DAVOS), by George R.R.  
Martin.  
_**I will cut the living heart**_  
_**from her breast and**_  
_**see how it burns.**_

 

 

(2) Based on Fabrizio  
De André's song  
_"Ho visto Nina volare"_

(3) Verses of  
Alighieri's work  
_"Paolo e Francesca",_  
from  
_La Divina Commedia._

 

 

**╚════════════☆═══** ╝


End file.
